


Prelude/Coda

by asofthaven



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Orchestra, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Demiromantic Character, Light Angst, M/M, composer Iwaizumi, conductor Oikawa, demiromantic Iwaizumi, one-sided kiniwa, whats the name for that ship?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 20:08:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3460310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asofthaven/pseuds/asofthaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iwaizumi's a fledgeling composer with memories of someone who makes his heart swell, and Oikawa is not at all what he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prelude/Coda

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not saying you should listen to this song while reading this, but I'll just leave the link here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=__s5V7KUvMM

Iwaizumi was ten when he thought to ask his mom about the dreams he was having about someone he’d never met, someone whose name he knew but could never quite recall. He’d been having the dreams for as long as he could remember, always of the same bright and charismatic person who left a lingering feeling in his chest long after he’d woken up, a stirring of unease in his gut because they weren’t _here_.

“It’s creepy,” he said, blunt because it was an uncomfortable feeling and he’d found that it was easiest to be blunt about those sorts of things.

"Maybe you're dreaming of your soul mate," his mom offered, sounding more than a little amused.

Iwaizumi scoffed; _soul mates_ didn’t sound like something real. He’d heard of it before, of course; there were people with strings attached to their pinkies, with names etched into their skin. Iwaizumi only had dreams of a person with a devilish grin and a fragile ego, and what kind of information was _that_ to go on?

“I don’t believe in soul mates,” he answered, insistent and stubborn, “Where’s the fun in having someone picked out for you already?”

His mom poked his nose, sudden and affectionate. “In the search,” she answered shrewdly, “And in the decision.”

It wasn’t until much, much later, when his mom was already beginning to fade from existence, that he wondered if maybe she really had known, if maybe _soul mate_ was exactly what that person was and she had recognized it from her own experience.

 

Sometimes, Iwaizumi would stare up at his ceiling at night and wonder—would it be different this time around, since he always seemed to be a few seconds slow when it came to the things that made his classmate’s talk about love the way they did?

Iwaizumi wasn’t sure when he first stumbled across the word _aromantic_ , but it stuck in his mind the way the person in his dreams did, like it was coded into the press of his fingers against saxophone keys and the affection that hung in his chest when he woke.

He wondered if it was the sort of thing that would make a difference to the person he was waiting for. He didn't know, really, if it'd been the same in their other lives; he only had snatches of memories of _before_ and that wasn't nearly enough to know what the feeling in his chest meant. 

But it was kind of a hopeless thing to worry about, so he shoved it to the back of his mind, thinking that he'd never have to examine it further if he never met his soul mate anyway.

He was fifteen when he turned down a girl that had confessed to him, unthinkingly, because something in his gut whispered _you’re not the one that I’m looking for_.

He was thankful that he hadn’t actually said that aloud, because he was sure it would have earned him at the very least a stinging cheek. But fifteen also became the year Iwaizumi recognized that the warmth in his chest was different from what he felt for his friends and so—maybe not aromantic, but something close, something _almost_ , and it bothered him, that he had no way of knowing until he met that person again, this time around.

Really, _bothered_ was probably too light of a word. It _annoyed_ him, that he had all these questions that couldn’t be answered yet because they all relied on some asshole he hadn't even met yet.

Iwaizumi was generally pretty patient, but he was decidedly impatient about this whole soul-mate-reincarnation thing and he couldn’t figure out why. Was it _because_ it was this person? A sharp flash of irritation went through Iwaizumi—how bad of an omen was it if your soul mate wasn’t in your life yet and was already causing you trouble?

He started scanning crowds and hoping on trains that weren't his in an attempt to find a grin that would be the same even if the face was slightly different, someone with just the right kind of gleam in their eyes.

He remembered that they met once in the middle of a grassy field when their car had broken down and Iwaizumi had been a mechanic just passing through, so he took a train out to the farthest bit of country he could reach at sixteen, accompanied only by his cellphone, a bit of money from his part-time job teaching students how to play woodwinds, and an unbecoming amount of hope. He camped out for a weekend before something in his head told him, _not here, not anymore_.

He was seventeen when he looked into medical programs because he remembered that they'd once been a doctor. But he had no desire to go into medicine and it seemed foolish to rely on a lifetime that must have been decades ago. And besides, he had an ear for music, not hands for operation, so Iwaizumi was freshly nineteen, a few weeks away from his second year at university, when he decided to ditch the saxophone to focus on musical composition.

There was just something about creating music that made Iwaizumi think—foolishly, probably, but he’d be damned if he was going to take Matsukawa’s teasing to heart—that if he could put their past lives into music, he could find that person.

"Do you ever get lonely?" Kindaichi asked once, in the middle of trying the piano part of one of Iwaizumi's newest compositions. It was well into Iwaizumi’s second year, and Kindaichi, for all his awkwardness, was at least a far sight more polite about playing Iwaizumi’s music than Matsukawa was. "Waiting for someone who might never come?"

Iwaizumi shrugged, uncomfortable; it wasn’t a topic he liked to discuss, even when he knew that there were other people like him, waiting on their memories to come back into their lives.

"They'll come," Iwaizumi replied confidently, more confidently than he actually felt.

"And you'll want them?" Kindaichi continued, his fingers stilling on the keys, "No matter what, you'll still want them?"

"No idea," Iwaizumi answered honestly, considering the question even after Kindaichi went back to playing.

Would there ever come a point where he would choose to not have that person in his life or was so deeply ingrained in him, this love for that person, that it wouldn't matter, that he would love them even if it hurt?

He hoped he'd never be that stupid in any of his lifetimes.

 

Iwaizumi was just shy of twenty-one when one of his compositions was sent, with his permission, to another prefecture of Japan by one of his professors. It bumped around from there, ended up forwarded to the up-and-coming conductor of an orchestra in Tokyo who had found the magic in the piece and was using it in their showcase.

And now here he was, having traveled two hours to stand stiff and uncomfortable in anticipation of hearing his music through someone else’s hands, and his insides were doing a fine imitation of his score as he waited to be introduced to the conductor. They were late meeting him, and there was a curl of irritation blossoming alongside Iwaizumi’s anxiety. In the rush of trying to get here, he hadn't even managed to catch the conductor's name. He flicked through the simple booklet in his hand, scanning for a name to give the source of his irritation and grudging thanks.

He was shuffling forward, eyeing the people around him as if he would recognize the conductor by their face, when he caught sight of someone who made the notes in his gut flee.

"I know you," he blurted out, staring at the stranger who made the unrest in his mind calm with a simple, world-shattering _he’s here_. He was dressed in a black tux, hair impeccable, head tilted up haughtily until Iwaizumi's voice reached him, and then his head took on a tilt of curiosity.

Brown eyes met Iwaizumi's. For a fraction of a second, Iwaizumi couldn't remember if that was the exact shade they always were before the other man's eyes widened and Iwaizumi _knew_ it was him.

"Iwa-chan!" the other man said, his voice ringing happily with a dozen more things that Iwaizumi hadn't known could be contained in a name: _Iwa-chan, you're here, I found you, I've been waiting for so long_. He moved towards him quickly, the illusion of haughtiness shattering in the goofy edge to his smile and the way he shot forward.

A bewildered smile found its way onto Iwaizumi's lips as he caught the other man, breathing in a smell that was completely new in its familiarity. Everything seemed to click into place in one simple swoop. "Oikawa," he grinned, and his voice answered Oikawa's in kind: _It's about time, I've missed you_.

He was the conductor, Iwaizumi realized, and it made so much _sense_ —of course he was, in this lifetime nothing else would make any sense.

"You're here," Oikawa said, fingers tight on Iwaizumi's arms.

Iwaizumi’s hands held the fabric of Oikawa's jacket with a white-knuckled intensity. "I am," he said. Everything around him felt light and breathy, his heart slowly returning to a normal pace.

Oikawa let out a sharp, dramatic breath that broke the delicate air between them easily. "I've been looking for you," he whined, his mouth pulling down into an exaggerated frown. "Where have you been?"

"Looking for you," Iwaizumi said, a little sharply. Did Oikawa even realize how much stupid shit Iwaizumi had done in an attempt to find him?

Oikawa sniffed. "It took you too long."

Iwaizumi unclenched one hand to tug, hard, on Oikawa's ear. "Maybe if you'd been looking a little harder, we'd have found each other sooner."

"I was trying!" Oikawa said, affronted, "I once tried to go to America because we met on a flight there a few lifetimes ago!"

"America?" Iwaizumi repeated blankly; he had no memory of America in any of his lifetimes. "I don't remember America."

Oikawa pouted. "Are you sure you were trying, Iwa-chan?"

Iwaizumi clipped Oikawa's head, wondering belatedly how he’d become _Iwa-chan_ already. "Of course I was!" He scowled. “And don’t call me Iwa-chan.”

Oikawa blinked at him, face suddenly softening into a smile. “But it’s so fitting!”

“Is it,” Iwaizumi deadpanned. That smile was doing weird things to his chest.

A harried looking musician came up to them then, politely demanding that Oikawa get backstage so they could actually get started.

"I'll be right there, Suga-chan!" Oikawa singsonged. Suga smiled tiredly at Iwaizumi before heading back, shooting an ominous smile in Oikawa's direction.

"He seems..." The words scary and angelic competed for space in Iwaizumi's mouth, "like a contradiction. Is he the concertmaster?"

"He's unassumingly commanding, yes," Oikawa responded, letting his grip on Iwaizumi's arm relax unwillingly. "Bit annoying, really, how very _refreshing_ he is."

Iwaizumi wanted to laugh at that, instead let his hands fall from Oikawa and took a reluctant step back. He felt like he should say something to mark a moment so momentous, but the only thing that came out of his mouth was, “Good luck.”

Oikawa blinked at him, like he wasn’t prepared to hear that, and then he grinned, his eyes teasing. Iwaizumi tensed immediately.

“Aw, thank you, Iwa-chan,” he said, leaning forward and causing heads to turn, “How sweet, when we’ve only just met!”

“Oh my g—just get on stage,” Iwaizumi snapped, pushing Oikawa away by the face.

He could feel the other man laughing under his palm, felt affection swell dangerously in his chest when Oikawa closed one hand on his wrist and pulled away, his grin childish in its sincerity.

“You’ll be there?” Oikawa asked.

“Why else would I be here?” Iwaizumi bit back, then, “First row, yeah.”

“Okay,” Oikawa said, a sharp gleam in his eyes, “Watch and be amazed, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi snorted. “By you?”

But Oikawa was already skipping away, his head held high but the haughtiness gone. Iwaizumi smiled to himself as he wandered back to his seat.

It seemed right when the curtain came up and Iwaizum saw Oikawa at the head of a hundred musicians, seemed right that Oikawa would be the one to bring the notes that made up their joint lives to life. He could hear the sound of water in the flick of Oikawa's wrist, of summer heat and teenaged laughter and, underneath it all, the airy, breathless beating of a heart that had to be theirs, some lifetime ago.

Iwaizumi watched Oikawa sway with the music, the delicate movement of his hands and fingers as he commanded the musicians, and was sure that Oikawa could feel that shared heartbeat, too.

 

These were the things Iwaizumi relearned about Oikawa:

He was competitive to the point of absurdity, and Iwaizumi found out very quickly that if he was going to play any kind of game—card games, video games, anything where there was a chance of _winning_ —he had to be wholly invested or else he would lose spectacularly.

(“I’m never agreeing to this again,” Matsukawa said, tossing his controller to the side with a casual sort of defeat. To their side, Kuroo and Oikawa were starting a new race, their eyes gleaming.)

(“You say that every time,” Iwaizumi pointed out, watching as the edges of Matsukawa’s mouth twitched up slightly in response.)

(“He’s good at making other people feel competitive,” Matsukawa said, and Iwaizumi looked over to Oikawa, watched as he tried to run Kuroo off the brightly colored road. Kuroo avoided it nimbly, snickering when Oikawa ended up running himself off the track.)

(“Yeah,” he agreed, then, when Oikawa and Kuroo moved their shoving match from on-screen to off, Oikawa cackling when he managed to overbalance Kuroo and send him tumbling to the side, “but maybe it’s more like you don’t want to be beat by an idiot?”)

Oikawa was a sucker for terrible movies—their movie nights were made up of B-rated movies with terrible effects and even worse acting, especially if aliens were involved, and Iwaizumi was always doubled up with laughter halfway through the film because he couldn’t take them seriously.

(“Iwa-chan, you’re ruining it!” Oikawa hissed, slapping his stomach ineffectively.)

(“You can’t be serious,” Iwaizumi said, but he quieted down anyway, waited until the end to tease Oikawa about his taste in movies.)

He was _fucking annoying_ and maybe only thirty percent of the time it was of the cute variety. The rest of the time it was sitting in Iwaizumi’s lap while he tried to practice at the piano, telling embarrassing stories in front of Iwaizumi’s friends, too-wide grins and teasing tones and his goddamned eyes crinkled in a warmth that made it hard to be angry.

(“You’re a nuisance,” Iwaizumi snapped, clapping his hand over his ear protectively. They were _adults_. Adults didn’t give each other wet willies when the other was trying to study for his one academic class.)

(Oikawa cackled in delight, leaning out of Iwaizumi’s reach. Iwaizumi kind of hated that he was learning—or maybe remembering. “Am I, though?” he asked innocently.)

( _Never,_ Iwaizumi thought. “A terror,” he said flatly.)

 

These were the things that Iwaizumi discovered about Oikawa:

He was softer than Iwaizumi remembered, the hard edges already smoothed so that when something bothered Oikawa, it was less like pulling teeth and more like a waiting game—waiting until Oikawa let out his breath and curled into Iwaizumi’s side and spoke.

(“Genius is frustrating,” Oikawa said, and Iwaizumi didn’t have to wait for more to know who he was talking about. “How do I compete with that?”)

(“You don’t have to,” Iwaizumi said after a moment, because maybe not everything had to be a competition. “You just have to do the best with what you have.”)

He could play five different instruments—piano, cello, trumpet, harp, and clarinet, of all things—and acted like it was nothing to be able to switch between instruments.

(“You’re better than me at piano, though,” Oikawa said, in consolation, “One out of six isn’t—ah, well, I suppose it is pretty bad—hey, Iwa-chan! That hurt!”)

(“It did not,” Iwaizumi said, “And what the hell’s with that ‘one out of six’? It’s five, isn’t it?”)

(Oikawa blinked at him, one hand coming to rest over his heart. “Looks, Iwa-chan,” he said solemnly, “No one beats me in that.”)

He was unfailingly _kind_ to his admirers, which wasn’t new, but struck Iwaizumi all the same. He was constantly stopping for pictures, thanking people for their well wishes and praises, a serene little smile on his lips. The few times Iwaizumi had accompanied him to watch the orchestra rehearse, he’d been struck by the amount of people who lingered around the theatre for a glimpse of Oikawa.

(“You’re a conductor,” Iwaizumi said, confused, “Why the hell are they obsessing over you like this?”)

(Oikawa grinned at him, and Iwaizumi was reminded that Oikawa had been an actor in one of their past lives. “You’ll get your recognition, too, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa said sweetly, “Not as much as me, obviously, but still.”)

He had almost gone to the same university as Iwaizumi had, and so wanted to come see it, get a full tour and everything.

“We could have meet so much _sooner_ ,” Oikawa complained while Iwaizumi trudged forward, unenthusiastically shoved into the role of tour guide.

“It doesn’t matter now, does it,” Iwaizumi said, stopping to let Oikawa get his first look at the music building Iwaizumi spent so much of his year at. He was in his last semester now, only a few more weeks until he could say that he had a degree in music, whatever that would help him in.

“Well, no,” Oikawa said, grinning indulgently at the pair of girls that came out of the left wing, rolling cellos down the hall towards the large practice rooms. They smiled back, whispers at their backs the moment they passed each other. Iwaizumi rolled his eyes, leading Oikawa down the opposite hallway towards the room where the grand piano was. It was where the university’s orchestras and bands practiced, but now that they were between seasons, it was mostly being used by students who wanted to use the nicer piano. “But it still would have been nice, don’t you think?”

“Are you ever satisfied with how things turn out?” Iwaizumi asked. Oikawa skipped forward, slung his arm around Iwaizumi’s shoulder.

“There is always room for improvement, Iwa-chan,” he said wisely, angling away from Iwaizumi’s elbow.

Iwaizumi removed himself from Oikawa’s arm, paused when he heard familiar fingers playing the piano.

“Who’s that?” Oikawa asked in a low voice, pressing his ear to the door with interest.

“Kindaichi,” Iwaizumi answered immediately; he’d heard the other play long enough that he knew the sounds now. “He’s a year below me. Plays my compositions sometimes.”

Oikawa glanced at him, quick and curious, but didn’t say anything. When the song ended, Iwaizumi knocked lightly before opening the door with a grin.

“That sounded good,” he said, “But weren’t you just getting impatient towards the end?”

“Oh, Iwaizumi-san!” Kindaichi said, smiling sheepishly. “Uh, yeah, I guess. I still haven’t gotten the hang of the key change at the end.”

Iwaizumi felt Oikawa move behind him, and moved to the side so he could introduce them.

"Kindaichi, this is Oikawa Tooru," Iwaizumi said, trying for casual because as he said Oikawa’s name, he was reminded that Oikawa was actually kind of _famous_.

Kindaichi blinked, surprise overtaking confusion overtaking some other emotion that Iwaizumi couldn’t identify, and said, "Oh. You found him."

Iwaizumi flushed; he wasn't sure how Kindaichi instinctively _knew_ , but it wasn't as if there was a point in denying it.

"It's a pleasure," Oikawa crooned, and Iwaizumi looked back in confusion. There was something off in the way Oikawa spoke, in the way he grinned at Kindaichi.

"Likewise," Kindaichi said stiffly.

"You've got beautiful hands," Oikawa said, still in that same voice, "Would you mind if I heard you play something else? Iwa-chan said you play his compositions sometimes."

Iwaizumi and Kindaichi shared similar looks of bewilderment.

"Uh, sure," Kindaichi said, facing the piano self-consciously. It was always odd to see the Oikawa became so focused—he watched Kindaichi intently, his finger resting lightly on his chin, eyes narrowed with concentration.

"You're really good, Kindaichi-kun!" he exclaimed, leaning forward excitedly. "Have you auditioned for any companies yet? You'd be a great addition to any symphony; you've got a good ear for the way the music flows—"

And he continued on that vein for several more minutes, leaving Kindaichi flustered and pleased and flustered with how pleased he was. Iwaizumi was sure it was because Kindaichi didn't think he'd like Oikawa, and he grudgingly admitted to himself that Oikawa was _charming_. He knew how to get others to like him, drawing people to him as easily as he commanded music.

It irritated Iwaizumi more than was strictly necessary, but he figured it was a side effect of spending so much time with Oikawa.

They left the music building shortly after. Oikawa's hand found Iwaizumi's immediately. He looked over curiously and found, to his surprise, that Oikawa was pouting.

"What?" Iwaizumi asked. He didn't even try to wring his arm out of Oikawa's grip—it was clear from the set of his eyes that he wouldn't let go.

"Did you date Kindaichi-kun?" Oikawa asked suddenly, his chin jutted out. Iwaizumi felt his eyebrows rise high into his face.

"No." He debated adding that he’d never dated anyone before Oikawa, decided against it even though Iwaizumi was sure he'd find out about it soon enough anyway. "Why?"

"Because he's obviously in love with you," Oikawa said, his voice coming out surprisingly snappish.

"He—?" Iwaizumi couldn't help the laugh that escaped him. "No, he's not."

"He is!" Oikawa insisted, tugging hard on Iwaizumi's hand so they came to a stop. "You can’t tell?"

"I—what? Is it obvious?" Iwaizumi thought back and, well, yeah, if he thought about it, he could maybe see it. But then, it wasn’t like he had ever been any good at detecting that sort of thing anyway.

"Oh," was all he said.

"Airhead! Iwa-chan is an airhead," Oikawa complained, like they were twelve or something. His grip on Iwaizumi's hand tightened, and his pout angled sharply. It was less teasing, more annoyed, and—

Iwaizumi blinked at the realization.

"Wait, are you jealous?" he asked disbelievingly. "About my junior having a crush?"

And Oikawa—the haughty and mischievous practically-famous conductor, Oikawa Tooru—spluttered and scoffed in denial.

Iwaizumi tried to bite back his grin, but affection welled up in his chest the longer he stared at the other man. He laughed and the sound seemed to shock Oikawa into silence.

"What?" he asked defensively, the pout taking on a familiar edge.

"Nothing," Iwaizumi said easily, tugging him forward with their interlocked hands, "You're an idiot, is all."

"Iwa-chan is mean," Oikawa said, bumping their shoulders together before tugging on their hands to stop them again.

"Hm?" Iwaizumi asked. He tried to school his face into something more serious when he saw that Oikawa was still pouting.

"Oikawa," he prompted when the taller man did nothing but stare at him. "Seriously, what is it?"

"You don't like him, right?" Oikawa asked finally, "Kindaichi-kun."

Did he really have to ask? Iwaizumi snorted, a fond huff escaping him without his permission. "He's a great guy, but no, I don't like him. I don’t," he hesitated, wondering at the intelligence of his next statement, let it fall out of his mouth anyways, “I don’t really like people like that.”

Oikawa stared at him, confusion plain on his face. Iwaizumi took an overlarge breath, held it in his chest for a moment. “It’s like it’s specific to one asshole conductor, actually.”

Oikawa was still, with surprise or something else, Iwaizumi wasn’t sure—but then his hand squeezed reassuringly on Iwaizumi for one, two seconds. His lips quirked up, like a grin suppressed.

"Poor Kindaichi-kun," he said in the least pitying voice Iwaizumi had ever heard. He started walking again, brightening up and reminding Iwaizumi of how quickly the sky would clear after an unexpected storm. "Come on, you have to finish the rest of the tour, Iwa-chan!"

"There's nothing left to show you," Iwaizumi said, relief sweeping through his blood at the ease with which Oikawa took his statement.

"Where do you normally compose, then?" Oikawa asked cheerily, "I want to see where the magic happens!"

"I wouldn't call it magic," Iwaizumi said flatly. Unless magic had evolved to include copious amounts of caffeine, crumpled sheets of empty staffs, and mumbled _what the fuck is this_ overtop of piano chords.

"It is," Oikawa insisted, "The first time I heard your music, it was like someone had plucked something from my chest and turned it into music."

He was looking at Iwaizumi with a softer smile, honesty at the edges where the teasing was already waning. Iwaizumi felt embarrassment spread quick-fire through his body. He tried not to think about the fact that his half-assed plan to find Oikawa had actually worked.

"Are you getting full of yourself because I praised you, Iwa-chan?" Oikawa asked, leaning forward to poke Iwaizumi’s cheek.

"Who would do that?" Iwaizumi said, moving away from the offending appendage. He was surprised to find that their hands were still laced loosely together.

"Iwa-chan," Oikawa said, resting his chin on Iwaizumi's shoulder, "I want to hear the rest of your music! If it's good, I can use it in my next concert."

"Of course it's good," Iwaizumi huffed.

"Then let's go!" Oikawa said brightly, his voice loud in Iwaizumi's ear as he tugged him forward, taking control like he had meant to be the tour guide all along.

Iwaizumi couldn’t help but think that, no matter how different it was this time around, some things wouldn’t change.

 

In no time at all, Iwaizumi grew accustomed to finding Oikawa's hair products in his bathroom, his binders of sheet music on top of his piano, and Oikawa himself plastered to his side under the covers.

It was nice, in the way that owning a temperamental and excitable pet was nice.

"Do you even still pay rent for your apartment?" Iwaizumi asked, in between organizing his newest composition. He'd already erased half of the second page, though, so maybe _organizing_ was the wrong word.

"Of course," Oikawa answered from the kitchen, "I can't sleep in a hotel after a full day of practicing with the orchestra!"

Iwaizumi clicked his tongue at that, but didn't say anything. He thought about it before, asking Oikawa if he wanted to move in with him, maybe leave that big orchestra in Tokyo and try and find one here, closer to—

Iwaizumi shook his head rapidly, letting his fingers press hard onto the piano keys to clear the fluff out of his head. Oikawa wanted symphonies and full orchestras with hundreds of musicians, not whatever local band he could find here.

"Did you forget how chords work or something?" Oikawa asked, a bowl of heated leftovers in his hand.

"Shut up," Iwaizumi said, turning his attention back to the sheet music in front of him. He couldn't remember what he'd intended to put on measure 51 anymore.

"Touchy," Oikawa remarked. Iwaizumi could hear him sink onto the couch behind him, "Have you tried eating, Iwa-chan? Low blood sugar can lead to irri—"

"Shut _up_ ," Iwaizumi repeated, but he put down his pencil and got up, settling next to Oikawa on the couch. He took the bowl, too, and Oikawa laughed like he expected it.

"Iwa-chan," he said, watching Iwaizumi for a few quiet seconds. "I'm moving my stuff in later, okay?"

Iwaizumi choked on his rice. "What?"

"What, no good?" Oikawa asked, looking away with a casual tilt of his head. His profile gave nothing away, but Iwaizumi knew better than that.

He sighed, closing his eyes briefly. "Figures you'd make the decision before I could even ask you."

Oikawa froze for a fraction of second before he laughed brightly, crashing into Iwaizumi's side and nearly toppling the bowl out of his grip. "Did you have a whole plan to ask me to move in with you?"

"I don't even have an extra key to give you."

"A true disappointment, you are."

Iwaizumi laughed, lifting the bowl of food in one hand and pulling Oikawa into a headlock with his free arm. "You're one to talk."

Oikawa was laughing into Iwaizumi's chest. "Mean, Iwa-chan. You should be nicer to me."

"What, and spoil you even more?" Iwaizumi grinned, loosening his grip. Oikawa relaxed, twisting so he could rest his head in Iwaizumi’s lap.

"Yeah, but you love me," Oikawa pointed out.

"God knows why," Iwaizumi muttered, then, “What’ll you do about the orchestra?”

Oikawa hummed lightly, but Iwaizumi had a feeling that he already had an answer lined up. “Well, I would hate to leave them in Tobio’s care, so I suppose I’d have to commute.”

Iwaizumi twisted his fingers in Oikawa’s hair, kept his gaze on the wall in front of him as he spoke. “Isn’t that a little too long of a commute?” He paused, only long enough to be sure Oikawa was listening before saying, “Wouldn’t it be easier if we moved somewhere closer, instead?”

He didn’t let his gaze drop even when he felt Oikawa shift under his hand, but he could feel heat creeping up into his ears the longer the silence went on.

“I’d like that,” Oikawa said finally, voice pitched low, and this time Iwaizumi’s gaze did fall, landed to find Oikawa staring up at him with brown eyes crinkled in warmth.

“Good,” Iwaizumi said, and he meant it—this, them together and figuring things out in the way that was new but familiar, was good, was better than Iwaizumi could have ever imagined it would be.

 

It wasn’t until two months later, after Iwaizumi had graduated from university, that they signed a lease and a week after that, Iwaizumi was carrying his piano in with Matsukawa holding the other end, yelling for Oikawa to hold the damn door open.

“Sometimes, I just kind of hate him,” Matsukawa said idly, adjusting his grip on the piano slightly when Oikawa did finally appear, a fine line between his brows and a phone between his shoulder and ear.

“I agree,” Iwaizumi sighed. His arms were beginning to ache and his back was not meant for this.

“I’m hurt,” Oikawa said dramatically, pulling the door back all the way with one hand, then, into the phone, “Tell Tobio I’m _busy_.”

“What does Kageyama want?” Iwaizumi asked, steering the piano towards the second bedroom that they had gotten for the sole reason of making into a music room. Oikawa’s harp was in the corner of the room closest to the window—he was fairly prissy when it came to the _ambiance_ of their set-up—and his cello, in its case, leaning against the wall next to it.

“Apparently,” Oikawa said in a breezy voice as he ended the call, “He needs my advice on a particularly troublesome trumpet player in that new orchestra he’s conducting. Wants to be the section leader but can’t even read music.”

“How’d he even get in then?” Iwaizumi asked, putting his end down opposite Oikawa’s harp.

It looked like there was a tick under Oikawa’s left eye. “He passed the audition by _memorizing what he heard_.”

Iwaizumi let out a low, impressed whistle.

“What the hell kind of talent is that,” Matsukawa said, setting down his side down as he spoke. He looked irritated, probably recalling his brief tenure with them before he started teaching. “Why is nobody in that orchestra normal?”

“ _Genius_ ,” Oikawa sniffed, the word coming out the same way he might say _laundry day_.

“He must be in a real pinch if he’s coming to you.”

“Maybe he’s desperate,” Iwaizumi said, rolling his shoulders back, “That’s the sort of thing that should make you disgustingly happy, isn’t it?”

“Feh,” Oikawa said, and Iwaizumi and Matsukawa exchanged a look.

“Just admit that you’re enjoying this,” Iwaizumi said at the same time Matsukawa said, “We already know you have a terrible personality.”

“I just want him to fail,” Oikawa said, abandoning his offended look, “so I can lord over him and say something like, _‘too bad, Tobio, that even your genius can’t defeat me’_.” He turned to grin at Iwaizumi, a kind of manic determination in his gaze. “You know?”

“ _No_ ,” Iwaizumi said while Matsukawa stifled a laugh next to him. “Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?”

Oikawa waved a hand flippantly. “I’m building up his character is all.”

His face clouded a little, though, before settling back into his practiced disdain.

“You sound like a villain,” Matsukawa commented evenly, before disappearing out of the room. Iwaizumi heard their fridge open, heard it close with an echoing thump.

“You’re out of food,” came Matsukawa’s voice. Iwaizumi knew that wasn’t strictly true, but went along with it.

“We’ll have to order out,” he said with a hum when Matsukawa poked his head back in. They locked eyes before saying, in unison, “Ramen.”

“What?” Oikawa looked over at them, brows furrowed.

“I’ll call Hanamaki,” Matsukawa said, turning away with his phone already at his ear before adding, “I’ll take this as payment for straining my back.”

Iwaizumi nodded, ignoring Oikawa’s squawk of _“what about friendship, Mattsun?”_.

“Oikawa’ll pay.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Great.”

“Are you two even listening to me?” Oikawa asked, mouth twisted in annoyance.

“That’s all we ever do,” Iwaizumi said flatly, the sound of Matsukawa and Hanamaki’s conversation filtering into the room. But he let his fingers curl around Oikawa’s wrist, pressed lightly against where the other man’s pulse was. He grinned when Oikawa looked at him. “So cheer up, okay?”

“You just want me to pay for your food,” Oikawa said with a sniff, but he adjusted their hands so their palms were warm against each other, fingers slotting between each other. He kept their hands like that even when Matsukawa came back into the room to tell them that Hanamaki would meet them in half an hour, even when they were walking to the shop and Iwaizumi was complaining that it was hard to walk with Oikawa clinging to him like he was a five-year-old.

“You know,” Matsukawa said, later, once they’d had their fill of ramen and Oikawa and Hanamaki were arguing about whether or not Oikawa was paying for his half too, “I don’t actually hate him.”

He looked over at Iwaizumi, mouth tilted up like an approval.

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi sighed, feeling safer in admitting that now, “Me neither.”

 

"Do you remember any of our other lifetimes?" Oikawa asked. He was sprawled on Iwaizumi's bed, a magazine dangling from his fingertips.

"A few," Iwaizumi said, looking up. It wasn’t a topic they discussed often—if anything, Oikawa seemed hesitant when the subject came up. Iwaizumi didn’t think anything of it, but to hear Oikawa bring it up of his accord was kind of weird. “Why?”

Oikawa didn’t answer, cementing Iwaizumi’s thought that something was off. He got up from his desk, leaning over Oikawa.

“What is it?” he asked, pulling the magazine away from Oikawa’s face with a lazy finger.

“I was just wondering,” Oikawa said, giving in easily, “if we remember the same things?”

“Oh.” Iwaizumi pushed Oikawa over a bit so he could sit. Oikawa put the magazine to the side, sitting up and resting his head on Iwaizumi’s shoulder. “What, you wanna compare notes?”

Oikawa laughed. “Well, aren’t you curious?”

Iwaizumi was, actually; the lifetime that stood out the most was the one soundtracked by the sound of volleyballs hitting gym floors, the sound of a team encouraging and celebrating and commiserating, the sound of his hand slamming into a ball that always seemed to be at the perfect height and distance from him and the net.

“I guess,” he answered, “What’s the one you first remembered?”

“The very first one?” Oikawa hummed, eyes twinkling. “You were a mechanic in that one.”

Recognition sounded at the back of Iwaizumi’s mind. “Your car broke down,” he said, “It took me fifteen minutes to figure out what was wrong because you wouldn’t admit that foul play might have been involved.”

Oikawa’s smile curved up in surprise. “If I remember correctly,” he said, “there was peanut butter in the exhaust pipe?”

They sat like that, trading lifetimes carelessly, like there wasn’t a potential of hurt until Iwaizumi, fingers carding slow through Oikawa’s hair, said, “I don’t like the ones when you’re not there.”

Those lifetimes had an awkward jerk to them, a snag at the back of his mind like a constant worry that he’d left the stove on. There was something missing, and he would sometimes become aware of it with a jolt of _not this time, not here, but maybe next time_.

He could feel the shift in Oikawa’s countenance before the brunet twisted his head to look up at him. Iwaizumi wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the serious set to Oikawa’s eyes.

"There are worst ones," Oikawa responded, and Iwaizumi found himself morbidly interested in what could be worse. He didn’t press Oikawa about it though, just pressed light kisses to Oikawa’s nose and lips and forehead and cheeks; he knew Oikawa would answer eventually because that was how they worked—they reached out and sometimes they missed each other, but eventually, every time, they would link hands and move on from there.

The words came out of Oikawa’s mouth like he tried to be light about it but had miscalculated and let them come out raw.

“You didn’t love me, once.”

Iwaizumi paused, feeling his eyebrows arch up.

That was not a lifetime he remembered.

“I must have been a real asshole,” he said because he couldn’t think of any other way to get rid of the heaviness in the air.

“Not more than usual,” Oikawa said, but his lip trembled as he spoke, ruining the teasing nature of his voice. Iwaizumi reached over to cup his face in his hands, ran his thumbs along the tops of Oikawa’s cheek.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. He pressed a kiss to corners of Oikawa's mouth to still the way they trembled.

It didn't help.

"You aren't the one that should be sorry," Oikawa said, leaning into Iwaizumi's palm. "I think... I'm pretty sure I was the one who was an asshole, that time."

The tightness in his chest was suffocating. Iwaizumi wished he had a better way to deal with it than sucking in a large breath and letting it unfurl slowly.

“I’m still sorry,” he said, feeling guilty for things he couldn’t even remember doing.

Oikawa’s eyes flicked down and took on an altogether different look. “You don’t remember that one?”

“No,” Iwaizumi admitted. They stayed quiet like that for a while, Iwaizumi running his thumbs along Oikawa’s cheeks and Oikawa’s face slowly crumbling into wet eyes and a running nose. His hands slid over Iwaizumi’s, holding them in place like he thought Iwaizumi would leave if he didn’t.

This was another thing Iwaizumi remembered—for all his bravado, Oikawa was fragile, and Iwaizumi sometimes worried that he wasn’t gentle enough to hold him.

 

Iwaizumi tried not to be too annoyed when Oikawa wondered in, a binder filled with sheet music in one hand and his Ipod in the other. It wasn't that he minded having Oikawa there while he composed normally. Oikawa when he was stressed about the line-up for a concert however...

Oikawa was slotted to conduct a huge symphony concert in a few weeks’ time—five and a half, to be exact, there's no way Iwaizumi could have forgotten even if Oikawa hadn't been marking down the days obsessively—and Iwaizumi knew it was probably Oikawa's most important concert to date.

Oikawa had a problem with limits; more accurately, Oikawa didn't know what the hell a limit _was_ and as a result, was spending every waking moment obsessing about every aspect of the concert—would the first chair be okay with the solo in the third piece, the brass were having trouble with the sequence starting on line 38 in the fifth piece, which piece should follow the third?

It was making him intense and fragile, and if weren't for the fact that Iwaizumi had to forcibly drag Oikawa to their bed so that he actually slept, Iwaizumi would probably feel a little better about the whole situation.

He still couldn't help the surge of pride he felt as he looked at Oikawa, though, hunched over with sheet music splayed out in front of him and his headphones pushed firmly on his head.

"I really like this one," Oikawa said a few minutes later, absently waving a sheet of one of Iwaizumi's older compositions, "It's very grand. Lots of sweeping crescendos and stuff, not at all like you."

He grinned cheekily at Iwaizumi.

"Thanks," he deadpanned, turning back to his piano quickly. He wasn't about to admit that it was because the piece had been written about Oikawa from one of their past lives, the one where he’d been an actor.

Glancing over his shoulder, Iwaizumi asked, "Did you want to use it for your concert?"

"Hm," Oikawa said noncommitedly, pulling his headphones down around his neck, "I think I'll wait on the one you're working on."

He got up and draped himself around Iwaizumi's shoulders to peek at the beginnings of the notes and rests that littered the score. Iwaizumi shoved him away roughly.

"I don't even know if it'll be done in time for that," he pointed out, "Just go with that one—it's more your taste anyways."

He didn't want to admit that this latest piece had been giving him trouble; he didn't want Oikawa to see such a mess of a composition. The chords didn't sound right, the melody was too fast but to slow it down sounded wrong, he hadn't even begun to think about whether the woodwinds or strings would get the main sequence starting on the 49th line—

Oikawa's chin came to rest on Iwaizumi's shoulder, reaching under his arm to plunk idly at the keys, quiet and considering.

"Anything Iwa-chan comes up with is my taste," Oikawa said sweetly. Iwaizumi rolled his eyes to cover his embarrassment.

"It's dumb to wait for a piece that might now even be ready in time for the concert."

Oikawa exhaled a breath next to Iwaizumi's ear. "I'd wait a hundred lifetimes for you, though," he hummed, pressing his mouth to Iwaizumi's ear and kissing the skin there.

It was very hard to concentrate on composing music when Oikawa was doing that to his neck. Gently, Iwaizumi put a hand on Oikawa's face and pushed him away.

"The sooner you leave me alone, the sooner I finish this piece," Iwaizumi said over the noise of protest Oikawa made under his hand. Grudgingly, Oikawa relented, mumbling about how heartless Iwaizumi was before disappearing out of the door.

_Heartless_.

He’d worried about that, before—if being heartless was why he’d never understood the concept of being in love. Being with Oikawa hadn’t changed that, exactly; Iwaizumi was still fundamentally clueless when it came to romantic cues. But sometimes—sometimes it _clicked_ when he was with Oikawa.

_"You didn’t love me, once."_

Iwaizumi's hands struck hard on the keys, producing a sound not unlike the way he felt; uncomfortable, jarring, wrong. Because the worst part, the _worst part_ , was that maybe Oikawa was _right_.

 

It was hard to build music on a memory you couldn’t recall, but Iwaizumi couldn't let go of the idea. But maybe, he thought, plunking half-heartedly at the keys, he should. It’s been three days and he still only had pieces of a melody, snatches of a tune.

A hundred lifetimes, and here he was, trying to capture the one that wouldn’t come.

_“You didn’t love me, once.”_

Iwaizumi let his fingers run over the few measures he did have, thinking hard.

In every lifetime, even the worst ones, Iwaizumi loved Oikawa however he found him—destructive and manipulative or sweet and overflowing with affection and emotion—and it didn't matter if Oikawa loved him, too, because Iwaizumi knew that whether he liked it or not, he and Oikawa were a _meant to be_ , that at some point, the stars would align and the universe would right itself and he would find himself in the lifetime that made every heartache, every memory of being pushed away or pushing Oikawa away, every moment of this isn't right into white noise. Unnecessary.

_“You didn’t love me, once.”_

He pressed down on a familiar chord, listening idly as his fingers worked through A, C sharp, E. A, C sharp, E, A sharp, D, E sharp.

It wasn't true, he realized, fingers hovering over the keys as he was struck with a clarity he could only remember feeling once before.

Or rather, it didn't matter if it was true. Because maybe, maybe he wasn’t always _in_ love with Oikawa, maybe this wasn’t the first life where _aromantic_ was as much of an identifier as _dark-haired_ or _musical_ or _extremely fed up with Oikawa’s childishness _, but maybe it didn’t matter. The only lifetimes he remembered were the ones where he looked at Oikawa like he was something precious.__

__Iwaizumi had never _not_ loved Oikawa._ _

__And that, he thought, was why the piece wasn't working. He was looking at it all wrong. The memory was sad and dark, but the music wasn't supposed to be._ _

__It was a _ballad_. One of those stupid, drawn-out ballads with harps and crescendoing flute harmonies and cellos carrying the secondary tune. The reason it wasn't working was because Iwaizumi, idiot that he was, had been missing the crucial part of the story._ _

__The important part wasn't the hurt. The crux of the entire composition was that there were a hundred thousand lifetimes, a thousand million universes, and every single time, Iwaizumi was looking for Oikawa._ _

__He shot up so fast he sent loose sheet music flying, not bothering to pick it up on his way out of the room._ _

__Oikawa was in the kitchen, something bright and pop-influenced playing low from his speaker. Iwaizumi leaned onto the counter, tapping it twice to get Oikawa’s attention._ _

__"That lifetime, the one where I didn't love you," he started. Brown eyes flicked in his direction, guarded, but he hummed, a sign to continue._ _

__"I think you're wrong," Iwaizumi said bluntly, drawing a surprised glance from Oikawa. "I don't there could ever exist a me who didn't love you."_ _

__Iwaizumi could see the defenses already drawing up in Oikawa’s eyes, hurried his words forward before Oikawa completely shut down._ _

__"But," Iwaizumi said, louder, "Even if you are right, and you did somehow end up with the only memory of the only possible time where I could have not loved you, it doesn't even matter. Not really, I don't think."_ _

__Oikawa looked over his face carefully, eyes flicking too quickly through his emotions. "Why are you bringing this up?" he asked._ _

__"Because," Iwazumi started, feeling heat rise into his neck and cheeks, "—and mind you, I'm still convinced that it could never be that I didn't love you—we've gone through too many times where we didn't have time or just missed each other or never found each other for either of us to get caught up in the one lifetimes where it didn't work."_ _

__Oikawa stared at him for a long moment, his face carefully blank. "What was it, then, do you think?"_ _

__"Huh?"_ _

__"That lifetime. If you really think that it's not that you didn't love me, then why do you think..." Oikawa let the question hang unfinished, swallowing hard enough that Iwaizumi could see the bob of his adam's apple._ _

__Iwaizumi let out an anxious breath, curling his fingers around his biceps and pressing the tips of his fingers into his flesh. "I think I probably decided," he said, choosing his words carefully, "that there was no point in us being together if we kept hurting each other."_ _

__Oikawa stared at him for a long moment, gaze considering. He didn't say anything, just abandoned the stove to wrap his arms around Iwaizumi's waist and drop his head onto his shoulder. Iwaizumi wrapped his arms tight around Oikawa's waist, waited for the inevitability of his voice to reveal his emotional state._ _

__Instead Oikawa laughed, alarming Iwaizumi enough that he pulled back and furrowed his brows in concern. “What the hell?” he asked, but Oikawa just shook his head, his laughter still shaking his shoulders._ _

__“It’s just,” he started, looking Iwaizumi dead in the eye, “Sometimes you say things that make everything seem lighter, Iwa-chan.”_ _

__Iwaizumi felt heat run up his neck, and headed it off by scowling and saying, “Don’t scare me like that, dumbass.”_ _

__Oikawa blinked at him, the expression softening into innocence as his head tilted to the side. “Eh,” he said, “Were you worried, Iwa-chan? You know too much thinking will give you a headache.”_ _

__Iwaizumi planted his palm on Oikawa’s face and shoved him away. “You know saying that is a hazard to your health?”_ _

__Oikawa laughed under his palm, a sudden reminder of their first meeting in this lifetime in the way he pulled Iwaizumi’s hand away._ _

__“How scary you are,” he said, placing Iwaizumi’s hand on his waist and stepping closer. Iwaizumi rolled his eyes, letting his other hand cup the back of Oikawa’s head to pull him down to him._ _

“You,” he said softly, “are a _total asshole_." 

__Oikawa snorted, dropping his head onto Iwaizumi’s. “Classy. Complete charmer. Why am I in love with you again?”_ _

__“No idea,” Iwaizumi said, threading his fingers through soft curls and leaning up to kiss the edges of Oikawa’s mouth. “Let me know when you figure it out.”_ _

__He was sure that this time, they’d have the time to figure it all out._ _

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this fic for WEEKS. I basically just combined my love for aro-spectrum Iwa with my fave AUs hahahaaaa ~~will I ever escape iwaoi hell~~
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it! Comments and critiques are hugely appreciated :)
> 
> The link at the top was to an instrumental version on One More Time, One More Chance (those are the beginning chords Iwa was going through at that one point). If anyone is interested in knowing the pieces I was listening to while writing this fic, let me know!


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